once upon another time (our story had only begun)
by inlovewiththeideaoflove
Summary: The beginnings of daybreak start to gleam faintly through the trees, and despite everything—what's expected of her, the reality of her relationship with a sailor and what can only ever happen, the consequences if anyone wakes and finds her missing from her bed—she feels magical, full of hope, possibility. Lieutenant Duckling AU.


She hastens along, knowing if anyone sees her—perfect, irreproachable, beautiful P_rincess Emma_—they'll prevent her from leaving. She bows her head, the hood of her cloak hiding her face from leering passerby. Her breathing comes in short pants, panic surges and grips her heart. She just needs a minute alone, away from the expectations and obligations and the disparaging looks from those who think she'll never be a queen as fair as her mother, that she'll never be as firm a ruler as her father. She careens out the servant's entrance, shaking and sweating, steps hampered only by the tight lacings of her corset and the heavy weight of her cloak. She's halfway down to the docks when she trips on her skirts—she's a princess, she comes from nobility, but unlike all preconceived notions, she's not graceful, and she _hates_ these long dresses.

She's met with blue eyes when she looks up. Blue eyes, ones she's thought about obsessively, incessantly, with _maddening_ hunger, ever since _that_ night. It'd been raining, she recalls, when she'd first met Killian Jones, right away utterly intoxicated by him. He'd been young, roguish, dangerous, voice mellifluous, eyes bright, turning heads and hearts—she'd seen him as soon as she'd entered the tavern, her face hidden within the confines of her hood. And despite the serving wenches that'd passed, with peremptory stares and ample hips, offering both ale and coercive smiles, he'd seen _her_, too. She still remembers the way he'd looked at her across the room—searching, perusing, full of wonder—and how time had stretched around them, elongating.

She accepts the hand he offers her now, getting to her feet with no thoughts to her pride or ego, only about the man she'd met, the stories he'd spun, the _fire_ between them. He smiles, winsome and true, and when he lilts her name in that deep voice of his—one she'd heard long after they'd parted ways—she forgets about fleeing the castle, her father's disproving constituents, the worry, the fear. She's young, vulnerable. As a princess, she understands the rudiments of politics, presiding over a kingdom, but she's never been in love. At eighteen, she doesn't yet understand her heart.

* * *

><p>They're running in the dappled light of what's hardly morning, hand in hand, laughing insouciantly and not knowing why. He's pilfered rum—negating both the uniform he wears and the sobriety he imposes—from one of the recruits he oversees, and it's harsh and burning at best, but they each take heavy swallows. Their kisses taste of rum, salt, pervading warmth. She never acts like this—the princess who lives within the confines of her own self-doubt—but with <em>him<em>, he makes her into the person she wants to be—impulsive, brave, convivial. He offers her a smile, one of carefree youth and mischief, and her heart just feels _full_.

_I love you_, she thinks, because in that moment he closely resembles the Killian she knows he is, underneath all the pretenses he employs as lieutenant of her father's royal navy, with bright eyes and brighter smile. But she doesn't say the words. The beginnings of daybreak start to gleam faintly through the trees, and despite everything—what's expected of her, the reality of her relationship with a sailor and what can _only _ever happen, the consequences if anyone wakes and finds her missing from her bed—she feels magical, full of hope, possibility.

* * *

><p>She smiles, curtseys. Her dress is long, sweeping the ground, and she's not entirely sure she looks as beautiful as her mother had insisted, but she walks and dances with an inherited certainty. Her suitors are many, from kingdoms all over, and they approach her with all the same intentions, the same chivalrous grin. All of this, however—the lights, the ball, the trappings—she doesn't give any of it much thought. Her mother wants to give her the opportunity to find the one she loves, the one whom her soul has been looking for, but how can she look any further, when she's already found him, and he's everything, everywhere—inside her heart, inside her head.<p>

When he promises her forever, she believes him. Not yet twenty years old, she's too young to think otherwise. She doesn't know that being in love makes her vulnerable. Her heart can't imagine its loss. When he bids her this promise, she can't imagine hurt or loss could ever come from his words, which were nothing less than sincere.

She knows her parents would not approve—he's not the man her mother would want for her, someone not born and bred from royalty—and therein begins the illicit meetings. She often finds him amongst the apple trees at the far end of the castle's grove, where they sit and laugh beneath the cover of sky for hours. Other times when he's invited to the castle along with his captain to meet with her father, he'll find her in one of her childhood hiding spots, waiting for him.

She is the happiest she's ever been, having spent the entirety of her life heavily secluded and protected, because he's _saved_ her in every way a person can be saved.

* * *

><p>He's on his back, and she looks at him—his recalcitrant black hair, the scars on his chest, his half-lidded eyes. <em>He's perfect<em>, she thinks, and she wonders what he's doing here, with _her_—a girl entirely without angles or curves, voluptuous breasts, or an inveigling smile. A part of her knows she's not without her faults, that he could do better, that he could decide to love a girl he didn't have to sneak out to the far corners of the kingdom to see.

Hands on her thighs, pantomiming humility, she's wearing only her chemise. Her heart's in her throat as she steps closer to him, letting the silk fall from her shoulders. The way he's looking like her—admiring, reverent, _loving, _like he wants to grow old with her—sends tears to her eyes, a self-deprecating smile to her lips. All her life, she's felt like a princess—overindulged, loved, illustrious—but she's never been just _Emma_, the girl who'd sooner fight than be a damsel in distress, who prefers leather pants to any dress, who spends a lot of her time wondering about the world. But here, now, with him, she's _free_.

He pulls her onto his lap, her legs wrap around his waist. His lips are soft, her mind malleable, and there's a heat between them that refuses the cold. She wants to stay here, in his arms, to never let him go or see him walk away.

It's dark—the barn smells of sweat, their coupling, and despite being renounced, faintly of cow excrement —but when he asks the princess to marry him, the proposition whispered against her lips as he moves over her, inside her, she doesn't think of anything besides how he makes her feel, and breathlessly concedes.

* * *

><p>She wants to elope, he tells her no. He says he loves her too much to take her away from her family, her kingdom. She tells him he's the only family she'll ever need, but he knows that not to be true, that she loves her parents too deeply to ever estrange herself from them.<p>

They're lying on a hillside, in the middle of a moonless night, when he tells her he's leaving. His voice wavers on the words, as though they pain him to say them. Her heart drops heavy and low in her chest.

It's a mission, ordered by her father. The king seeks a plant in Neverland, one with the medicinal properties that could cure any ailment. If he succeeds, he'll return a hero, acclaimed enough for her to marry.

He leaves at dawn.

* * *

><p>Her face is wet with tears, her hands grip the lapels of his coat, kissing him with the all-consuming love. They were made for each other—two people who loved each other unequivocally, unconditionally—and the days would be empty when they were apart. He rests his forehead against hers, tells her he loves her, the words full of loss and longing.<p>

Don't go.

Darling, I must.

Come back to me. Please, whatever you do – just _come back to me_.

Keep a weather eye on the horizon, my princess. I'll return for you.

I love you, Killian.

I love _you_.

The night is gone, the sun begins to rise, winking through the trees. He turns to the docks, the early morning light catching in his hair. He's halfway to the ship when he looks back, sends her one last smile over his shoulder, one of carefree youth and mischief, belying the pain of being parted from his heart, which he kept with her. Forever, he calls. Forever, my love.

She looks down at the ring on her finger, the only thing she has to commemorate their betrothal. It had been his mother's ring, the only thing he had left of her, and despite her opposing protests, he'd given it to her, fully intending to marry her upon his return.

Forever, she whispers, watching the ship sail out into the vast and glimmering waters.

* * *

><p>It's nearly dawn, but sleep hasn't called to her. She stares out the window at the sea, watching the waves retreat, compelled by a provenance within her heart, sordid and sad. The long, withdrawing roar of the ocean brings her back to a morning in her youth, many years ago.<p>

She hears her husband stir beside her, reaching for her in his sleep, but she's consumed—her thoughts far away, in another time. She spins the ring on her finger, the one her daughter asks about, the one she's worn since as long as she can remember

Staring out at the sea, she remembers the sailor who'd owned her heart.

She searches for a ship that never returned.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Angst. Ah, dear, sweet angst. Combine a prompt about lost sailors at sea with Lieutenant Duckling and BOOM. Comment if you'd be interested in a second part, told in Killian's point of view. Many thanks, friends.

P.S. I know you're all like wELL WHY THE HELL COULDN'T SHE MARRY KILLIAN WHEN HE WAS LIEUTENANT THAT'S A PERFECTLY RESPECTABLE RANK (which is what my beta exclaimed, loudly and with more expletives). And yeah, I'm sure she could've, and Snowing probably would've condoned the relationship, but that wouldn't make for good angst, now would it.


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